He had to keep going, he had to know more, but he also fiercely felt the need to write and respond to all the clues. The last pieces of this puzzle were sitting on his desk. Oglesby had also given him Hawthorne’s Mosses from an Old Manse to read over the break as a supplement to The Scarlet Letter. There had to be some connection between Screwtape and Young Goodman Brown if Dan just could reread them together. He picked up his journal . . .

Idea:

Write a ballad about how the devil tricked everyone into arguing with themselves.

Refrain:

The devil came to me in a dark wood,

Telling lies how he was misunderstood.

The words were simple with bluesy timbre. He was picking the right downshifting vowels for a cautious, moonlit duel with the devil. Dan flipped the Freewheelin’ tape, and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” purred along. He was coming into the zone, vibrating with ideas, tameless and swift with thoughts and songs.

And then a hard knock, and his mother—having returned from Porlock, no doubt—opened the door. Dan heaved a sigh with his back to her.

“What?”

“Don’t start with me. I’ve had enough already.” Dressed in an off-white robe, she was loaded for bear. Christmas for the Malones had been Cold War tension turned proxy conflict turned quagmire. In Dan’s mind, his mother had escalated things, and he allied with his father’s failed attempts at pacification. It had started after Mass on Christmas morning with the opening of presents, of which there were few. They sat around the artificial tree, and Dan unwrapped a Hecht’s box to reveal a red cable-knit cardigan—Two sweaters in two months!—from his aunt Catherine, which he liked in an ironic Mr. Rogers way. Anne’s turn. Santa had gotten her a bottle of Chanel No. 5, which was most certainly her fragrance. The only problem was that she had gotten the same for her birthday in July. Pat sank into the sofa when reminded of this fact.

“A lifetime supply,” Anne hissed. “Great. I’ll be dead before I fucking run out.”

It was eight in the morning, and Anne was performing Samuel Beckett’s little-known adaptation of “The Gift of the Magi.” Pat, who didn’t want to think how lit he had been at the perfume counter at Dillard’s, was quietly cueing Dan to open another present when his wife went exothermic, her ire spewing forth all at once:

“Why are you spending money we don’t have?

“Do you ever think about someone besides yourself?

“Why can’t you get your shit together, Pat?

“Why haven’t you had a single interview or call about a new job?

“What are we going to do? Tell me. You sit around all day with time to think about it.”

It was a miserable combination of below-the-belt punches. Pat tried to deflect and not take the bait.